We were surprised
Last August
When the plum tree bore heavily
From her two remaining branches,
Seemingly unconcerned
With the dark-leaved bows
Rotting gently round her feet,
Small handfuls of arrested fruit
Returning to muck.
She stood proud at less than half herself
And let the wasps and children go to work.
But this year
There is nothing coming
Her ponderous senses finally realising
The measure of the loss,
She turned inwards